


Do You?

by vipjuly



Series: Undisclosed Pleasures [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Creature Castiel, Goth Castiel, M/M, Power Bottom Castiel, Tattooed Castiel, Top Dean Winchester, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 13:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15120695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: This is Castiel’s lair.“Dean.”Glancing up, Dean sees Castiel at the top of a grand staircase, and immediately loses his breath.Now- Dean is a pretty simple guy. He likes girls with big racks and dudes with solid muscles and is weak for a white tee and jeans. But seeing Castiel at the top of the steps makes Dean rethink every relation he’s ever had - makes him see what he’s been missing out on his entire life.





	Do You?

**Author's Note:**

> "Do You?" - Troyboi  
> i love you all for your patience.  
> artwork of castiel's back tattoos can be found [here](http://vipjuly.tumblr.com/post/175423612933/undisclosed-pleasures-a-series-by-vipjuly-art) and has been hyperlinked/embedded in previous chapters.  
> artwork provided by [kazibug](http://kazibug.tumblr.com/)

Dean isn’t really one for artistic ventures. No one he knows is really interested in the ‘art scene’ - Charlie is a programmer, his brother is a lawyer, and the rest of his friend’s jobs vary mostly in the service industry. He’s never really had a reason to dress up and go anywhere ‘fancy’ and it just figures, he thinks, that Castiel would be the one to give him a reason to. And it also figures, he thinks wryly as he checks out his reflection in the mirror, that Castiel wouldn’t require Dean to go out of his comfort zone.

Dark denim jeans are paired with a black henley, the size a little on the tight side to show off his broad shoulders and thick biceps, and he’s almost shy about the way his pecs stand out, clearly defined, his nipples a little hard in anticipation. He smooths his hands over his waist and then fastens the buckle of his black belt, letting out a breath before he trails his fingers over the black rope tied around his wrist and forearm. He doesn’t have it wound around his fingers, but it still feels good - secure - and looks more like an accessory than anything. It goes up to his elbow but the sleeve of his shirt hides most of it, anyway, and he smiles softly to himself as he turns towards the bed to pick up his leather jacket. Castiel had said he didn’t need to dress up, but Dean’s at least wearing his nice boots, and part of him wants to impress the eccentric curator. 

Granted, the man has seen him undressed and compromised and seemed impressed enough, but that’s beside the point.

He grabs his phone, wallet, and keys and makes his way out of his condo and to his car. He sends a text to Castiel to let him know he’s on his way and his car door _crrrrrk_ s open, the smile still on his features as he starts her up and listens to her purr. The museum is on the opposite side of the city from Dean’s business, and he appreciates the contrast of the pristine streets, trimmed foliage, and sleek buildings. He pulls into the gallery and parks where the valet indicates him to do so, thankful they don’t insist on taking his car away. Castiel had said that Dean would be allowed special privileges to park and Dean is more than thankful that Castiel had gleaned from their conversations that Dean would rather chop off his right arm than let a stranger drive his Baby. 

Walking up to the main doors he sees a crowd of people already lingering around. Checking his watch (one of the tendrils of rope is wound around the band and when he sees it, it grounds him) he knows he’s a little early. The rotating glass doors allow him in and from the outside the building had been white and lit up and glossy but on the inside… 

This is Castiel’s lair.

If Castiel’s home had seemed the picture of goth decor, this museum-slash-art gallery takes it to the next level. Looking around with wide eyes Dean self-consciously slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, mostly to refrain from touching anything that looks interesting. He’s known to be a bit clumsy and damn it, he should have thought about that before agreeing to come. Castiel might like him a lot, but Dean’s pretty sure a crooked smile and an “oops?” wouldn’t cover the cost of one of these pieces shattering on the floor.

“Dean.”

Glancing up, Dean sees Castiel at the top of a grand staircase, and immediately loses his breath. 

Now- Dean is a pretty simple guy. He likes girls with big racks and dudes with solid muscles and is weak for a white tee and jeans. But seeing Castiel at the top of the steps makes Dean rethink every relation he’s ever had - makes him see what he’s been missing out on his entire life. 

Castiel is wearing a blood red three-piece tux, a black vest underneath and a black rose pinned to his lapel. As he starts walking down the stairs his shoes click on the steps, making Dean wonder what kind of boots he’s wearing; the tux is tapered in an almost feminine way, hugging his hips and broadening his shoulders, the tailcoats floating behind him as if suspended in water. The material must be thin and light. There’s a shiny black cane in his right hand, and Dean can see the ribbon of crimson rope on Castiel’s left wrist - his heart thuds - and the man’s ensemble is finished off with a gold plated crown, fit for a king, atop his messy dark locks. The closer he gets the more Dean sees the details of the outfit (silk, thread, gossamer) and then finally, Dean makes eye contact.

Castiel’s eyes are smokey, but not like how they were the night they met. No, it looks like a professional makeup artist tilted his eyes with a smokey black cat eye shape, the inner corner and brow bone highlighted with gold, his under eyes concealed and the perimeter of his face bronzed and contoured (not that Dean knows all of these details, ok? Charlie just likes to talk sometimes when she does her makeup and Dean is stuck in the bathroom with her). False eyelashes fan out to accentuate the cat-like shape of Castiel’s eyes and his lips are shiny with a clear gloss as he smiles and approaches Dean.

The clicking continues.

Dean looks down, arousal pumping through his veins when he sees Castiel wearing red bottom high heels.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Castiel’s smile turns a little wry as he finally comes into Dean’s space, now about four inches taller than him. “Hello to you, too.”

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean appraises under his breath, not wanting to be too loud. Already people’s heads had turned at Castiel’s grand entrance, just as bewitched by his visage, and Dean doesn’t want to let them hear just how ineloquent Castiel has rendered him. “You are not of this Earth.” 

Castiel shrugs an elegant shoulder, reaching out to slide his fingers up under the left sleeve of Dean’s jacket and shirt, fingers brushing over the rope. “You look amazing in black. Just as I thought.” Dean does his best not to flush, but he knows it’s a losing battle. Castiel makes a grand gesture with the hand holding his cane. “Welcome to my playground.”

“It’s amazing,” Dean says honestly, glancing around. Black, crimson, deep purple and gold make up the color palette and just like with Castiel’s home, Dean feels cocooned instead of claustrophobic. “How big is it?”

“We have three exhibits currently, including the one that will be opening tonight,” Castiel says. He withdraws his fingers from Dean’s sleeve and then turns his body a little, lifting his elbow slightly. 

Taking the invitation with a grin, Dean wraps his own arm around Castiel’s properly so Castiel can start leading him around. They spend the next thirty minutes or so going from piece to piece, Castiel explaining the artistry, and while a lot of it goes over Dean’s head he can still appreciate the time and effort it took to create all of these beautiful things. A lot of them have dark themes; some mythical, some magical, and some just plain out of this world, but all of them are things that Dean can understand being special to Castiel. He explains each piece like he was the one who personally crafted it; Dean thinks it’s a very charming trait that Castiel had clearly asked the artists about their work and then memorized pretty much everything they said about it. It’s that attention to detail that Castiel always pins Dean with, and seeing it leak into other aspects of the man’s life is quite revealing.

After the tour, Castiel directs them towards the final room they have yet to explore. Dean is just following along, always ready to let Castiel lead him, so when the doors open and thunderous applause greets them Dean blinks in surprise, his smile a bit frozen on his face. Next to him Castiel unwinds their arms and gives a gracious bow, royal flesh and blood, and then returns the clapping with his own hands. 

“Everyone,” he says, the crowd quieting once he speaks. “Thank you for joining us. This exhibit is something that I have worked tirelessly on to craft, and I hope you all enjoy it.”

Walking further into the room, Dean follows Castiel a bit awkwardly. There are four pieces on the other side of the room in varying square and rectangular shapes, all of them covered in white tapestry, and that’s where Castiel stops. He turns around to face the crowd and Dean dutifully steps off to the side, a little tense under the few curious glances tossed his way. He definitely looks out of place, now that he’s absorbing what everyone else is wearing; variations of crimson and black and gold - they all match the theme - elegant dresses, tuxedos, and what looks like homemade costumes and even a handful of masquerade masks.

“I bring you...” Castiel raises a hand. People behind him at the covered pieces grab the tapestry, awaiting the man’s go-ahead. “ _The Profound Bond_.”

All at once the covers are removed from the art pieces and Dean turns around as well, feeling his breath stop up in his throat. Each piece is a painting of varying size, shape, and media. Most of them have religious themes, but all of them are… explicit. Naked humans, demons, angels, beasts - all entangled in one another. Heaven and Hell sharing beams of light, black and red ribbon threading through each piece as if to connect one to the next, and when Dean allows his eyes to take in the detail of the painting in front of him, he blinks slow.

Black feathers, midnight blue gossamer, are hidden among the ribbons and ecstasy. Dean looks at each painting and finds at least three feathers in each one, and then his eyes start following the black and red ribbon to try and find the source. It takes a few seconds, but when he sees where the black ribbon ends in the painting on the far right, his cheeks flush up to his ears.

It’s him.

Well- a version of him. An angel with light hair and emerald eyes and smatterings of freckles across his bare chest and shoulders, brilliant tawny wings extended from his shoulder blades, strong and huge, dappled in a reflection of the freckles on his skin. There’s a black loincloth covering his modesty and his expression is serene as he gazes towards the left. The black ribbon is wound around his left forearm, wrist, and fingers, and Dean subconsciously reaches for the ribbon on his own arm, tightening the end slightly to feel the pressure of it indenting his skin. The red ribbon is coming off of his right hand, wound only around his fingers, and Dean lets his eyes travel in the opposite direction, all the way to the painting on the far left.

It’s Castiel.

And he’s Falling.

The wings protruding from his back are gnarled and mangled, a glamorous version of the tattoo on Castiel’s skin. They look like they were once as beautiful and full as Dean’s but they’re shedding, molting; the red ribbon winds up his arm, loops around his shoulder, and wraps around his throat to put the tail end of it between his teeth. The black ribbon is wrapped around his ribcage, a few drops of blood snaking down the lines of his abdomen. He’s riding a monstrous beast, a fearsome dragon with gossamer blue-black scales and onyx claws, a blade of sorts tucked into a hilt that straps across the beast’s barrel chest. Despite the gore of his entanglement Castiel’s face is just as serene as Dean’s, eyes full of adoration as he clearly meets the emerald gaze across the room. 

In the pieces between warriors from Heaven and beasts from Hell are entwined and now that Dean is over the initial shock of the size and intensity of the work he sees that they are not battling each other, they are… dancing? Every face visible has a placid, almost reverent gaze, the ribbons twining between the creatures binding them together. 

Another step back and Dean takes in paintings as a whole. With the spacing between the frames themselves this exhibit takes up about fifteen feet lengthwise, and Dean feels something _tugging_ inside of him, his gaze flitting back and forth between angel-him and angel-Castiel.

Next to him, Castiel leans in to murmur. “You are a wonderful muse.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry and his eyes widen in disbelief as he turns his head sharply towards the king next to him. “We just met on Saturday. There’s no way you- you can’t have done this in that time.”

Castiel’s smile is wicked, the gloss of his lips reflecting off the overhead lights. “Even I can’t work that quickly.” He turns his gaze towards the paintings. “Where you are was an outline up until Monday morning. I couldn’t decide what I wanted to embody. And meeting you, Dean, was… an epiphany.”

Dean can’t hide his slightly amused smile. “Guess I wasn’t the only one who had an awakening last weekend?”

Castiel hums. “I also didn’t add the ribbon in until yesterday morning. I had been worried that I wouldn’t have this work done before tonight.”

“You nailed it,” Dean says honestly, turning his attention back towards the paintings. He grins playfully to try and deflect the intense emotions swirling within him, “You painted me like one of your French girls.”

He feels Castiel’s eye roll as the man pulls slightly away from him. “Classy.”

“I thought so,” Dean chuckles. He glances around, before meeting Castiel’s gaze. “But uh- really. Are you sure it’s ok that you… painted me?”

Castiel tilts his head. “Why would it not be ok?”

“Because-” Dean gestures idly with his left hand towards the art. “What if we don’t work out? This… this is a huge piece. It’s amazing. And what if it ends up being just a reminder?”

Castiel catches Dean’s left hand, pushing up the sleeves of his jacket and shirt, twisting the ropes so that they tighten on Dean’s skin. Dean’s heart thuds in his chest as he allows Castiel to pull him closer, a waft of rosy perfume filtering through his nostrils. “You will always be a dream to me, Dean. Commemorating you in this way ensures that I remember that this was _real_.”

Letting out a breath, Dean looks up at Castiel, finding it… exhilarating that the man is taller than him right now. And, at a loss for words, Dean does the only thing he can think of doing: he uses Castiel’s grip on his wrist to his advantage, drawing the man in for a kiss. Castiel’s head dips to meet Dean’s and his lipgloss is tacky and sweet, everything about the other encompassing Dean wholly and fully. This fallen angel, this battered warrior, this heaven sent being… He returns the kiss and then pulls away, blue eyes dark, false lashes fluttering, the gold shimmer high on his cheekbones making him look ethereal as he looks over Dean’s features. Lost in their own world for a moment, Dean almost startles when someone approaches Castiel and says his name softly to get his attention. 

It takes Castiel more than a moment to tear his gaze away from Dean, sending a small smile to the woman that approached. She has questions about the exhibit and Castiel threads his fingers through the rope on Dean’s wrist briefly before giving his hand a squeeze, signalling that it’s alright for Dean to either wander or stay. How Dean gets that from just a touch he’s unsure, but he doesn’t question it as he pulls out of Castiel’s orbit, choosing to make his way through the crowd. Strangers smile kindly at him, likely tying him to Castiel (given that they entered arm-in-arm), and Dean offers small, slightly awkward smiles in return. Big events with people he doesn’t know really aren’t his thing. 

He steals away towards the caterer’s table, grabbing the bartender’s attention and taking a beer. It’s cool and refreshing and Dean surveys the crowd, still feeling out of place, but every time he feels the rope tighten around his arm when he moves it, he feels a calming sensation wash over him. His gaze occasionally lands on Castiel, who is making his way through the crowd to network, talking to guests as well as likely congratulating artists for their pieces being displayed throughout the rest of the gallery. It’s hard to miss Castiel - he’s the only one wearing all red, probably planned it that way - and those high heels make him taller than every other person in the room. 

Content to observe, Dean’s eyes still travel over towards the paintings Castiel had crafted. It’s hard for him to imagine anyone else in his painted self’s place; as a whole, it looks like Dean was meant to be there from the beginning. Castiel has a… _way_ about him and Dean can’t quite put his finger on it - which is why he was surprised to see his own image in the painting, but not necessarily confused by it. He knows that if he asked Castiel again the man would probably spout off something about fate or destiny - maybe even echo that _profound bond_ he mentioned over the weekend. And Dean knows well enough by now that he would accept whatever answer Castiel would give him.

The attachment should be terrifying.

Instead, it is exhilarating.

Dean finishes his beer, wandering until he finds the proper receptacle to dispose of his empty bottle. His hands slide into his pockets and he makes his way out of _The Profound Bond_ exhibit, wandering around the other sculptures and paintings displayed prettily throughout the halls. It’s quieter out here, the trill of violins and conversation background noise as Dean finds himself feeling… _content_. Content like he’s never felt before. Like he’s full of his favorite food, sitting on his mom’s couch listening to her putter around in the kitchen, Sam with his nose in a book curled up in the recliner. A waft of ambrosia filters through Dean’s nostrils and he inhales deeply, feeling no surprise when fingers press into his spine, walking slowly up the length of his back until they slide through the short hairs at the base of his neck. 

“What are you thinking?” Castiel’s voice is deep behind Dean, their only point of contact the man’s fingers on Dean’s scalp.

“‘Bout happiness.” Dean replies honestly. He’s not usually one to mince words, but he’s also never usually so forthcoming with his thoughts and emotions. Something about Castiel makes it impossible to deflect, and instead of feeling self-conscious and scared, Dean feels… emboldened by it. Like he can say anything. _Feel_ anything.

“Yours?” Castiel’s fingers slide behind the shell of Dean’s ear slowly. 

A shiver bounces down Dean’s vertebrae, “Yeah.”

“Is it tangible?” Castiel’s lips brush against Dean’s ear. 

“Yeah,” Dean replies, breathless. The proximity of Castiel is always intoxicating, regardless of the context or situation - the pure _attentiveness_ and focus that Castiel pins Dean with is enough to get him to say everything that’s ever crossed his mind without even a second thought.

Fire licks across the span of Dean’s shoulders, a sharp, spearing sensation that makes him roll and shift the muscles in slight discomfort. Like something’s digging into the bone. Or protruding from. Castiel’s sharp teeth nip at the sensitive cartilage of Dean’s ear and both of the man’s hands slide down Dean’s arms, all the way down to his wrists, grasping them gently and lifting them up into the air, palms open. 

“I feel it,” Castiel murmurs. Dean’s fingers twitch. Castiel’s fingers trace over his palms, flesh prickling, and then Castiel’s mouth starts moving down the column of Dean’s neck, his voice vibrating low against the flesh. “It’s… Delectable.”

Swallowing thickly, Dean tilts his head to the side, feeling his eyes flutter slightly in response to Castiel’s attentions. “Cas…”

Castiel’s chest against Dean’s back is strong, firm, solid, and Dean leans into it slightly, starting to feel that heat spread from his shoulders and ribs down. Castiel is _tall_ and Dean is reminded of the stilettos he’s wearing, that searing heat feeling like a brand against his bones as it winds its way towards his groin, his cock starting to fill.

“Mmm,” Castiel’s fingers on his wrist catch in the rope bound there. “My lovely Dean…”

It’s a weird haze they’re in. Time slows around them, everything but Castiel’s voice and breath becoming dull background noise, and Dean feels… cocooned. There’s a flutter in the air and he swears he catches sight of midnight blue gossamer feathers out of the corner of his eye but Castiel’s other hand is turning his chin sharply towards him, their mouths slotting together for a kiss. Dean’s eyes close, his body turns, and then he’s falling against Castiel, barely unable to keep himself upright as the intoxicating flavor of the siren in front of him explodes over his tongue. All thoughts of being in public fly out of his head as Castiel’s hands slide down Dean’s waist to rest on the small of his back, drawing him closer, pressing them together, the soft threads of Castiel’s red tuxedo eliciting goosebumps everywhere it comes into contact with Dean’s flesh. 

Fire.

Flames.

Dean exhales on a pant and smoke crackles in the air between them, Castiel greedily sucking up Dean’s breath before his tongue plunges back into his mouth. Dean lets out the smallest of whimpers, darkness enclosing on them, a brush against the backs of his thighs causing green eyes to flutter open in disoriented wonder. 

Wings.

Wings are protruding from Castiel’s back, _huge_ , midnight gossamer blue feathers sleek and wrecked, burning to ashes, fire dancing across the bones. Castiel’s eyes reflect the fire, the blue, the _black_ , and whatever Dean is supposed to feel upon seeing these beastly appendages, he… doesn’t. 

“ _Cas_.”

In a blink the wings are gone and Castiel is cupping Dean’s features warmly, softly, sweetly, kissing his forehead, murmuring sweet things. Dean’s knees feel weak and it’s Castiel holding him up with an arm around his waist, backing him up to press him against a nearby wall for balance, heels clicking on the floor, tailcoat swishing. Dean coughs a little, his throat raw (from the _smoke_ that he had exhaled), and Castiel is eyeing him quietly, that intense gaze fixated on Dean’s features, gauging, waiting. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, fingers fluttering through sandy blond hair. “Are you alright?”

“What…” Dean licks his lips, trying to organize his scattered thoughts. It’s hard to focus on anything with Castiel’s intoxicating aura; the smell of brimstone, ozone, and ashes. 

“What do you _feel_?” Castiel presses, his rumbly voice insistent but calm. 

“I feel…” Dean searches for the words. His eyes dart from Castiel’s made up eyes, to his glossy lips, to the tattoos crawling up his jaw, to the breast of his tuxedo jacket. “Good.” He finally decides. That weird burn singeing his bones feels more like comfort than pain, and he reaches a hand up to rub his palm over his chest, trying to ease the ache and diffuse it deep into his body at the same time.

“Good…” Castiel echoes. He lifts a hand so a delicate finger, nail painted black, can lift Dean’s face for direct eye contact. He searches Dean’s eyes, clearly looking for a lie, for anything other than what was said, but- he must be satisfied with what he sees (and Dean wishes he could see what Castiel can), because he pulls away from Dean, taking with him that rich, penetrating scent. “Good.”

Suddenly Dean can breathe normally. Suddenly his bones don’t ache and his nostrils don’t burn and he can stand on his own two feet. He blinks away the haze that had clouded his brain and then, without hiding it, lets his eyes rove over Castiel’s shoulders where he _knows_ what he saw. Castiel has the smallest of smiles on his features and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a key, taking Dean’s hand so he can press the object into his palm. 

“Go home, Dean. Wait for me.”

Dean blinks in surprise, looking down at the key and then up at Castiel. “You want me to leave?”

“I believe it is best for both of us if I wrap up the evening without you to… distract me.”

A weird feeling tugs inside Dean’s chest and, like he can sense it, Castiel puts his palm over Dean’s heart. That burning sensation returns, softer this time, like a flickering candle instead of a raging wildfire, and calm sweeps through Dean’s body and mind. After a moment, he nods, closing his fingers around the key and then sliding it into his pocket.

“Alright. I’ll go.” 

Castiel’s hands once again cup Dean’s jaw to tilt his head up and press the softest of kisses to his plush lips, lip gloss tacky, noses brushing, and another weird flutter passes over Dean, this time brushing against his calves. “Drive safely.”

The sound of those high heels clacking against the linoleum floor brings Dean back to the present and he looks around, surprised to be suddenly alone. Letting out a breath and running a hand through his hair he compartmentalizes his errant thoughts: leave the gallery, drive to Castiel’s. Easy enough. That weird ghost sensation of invisible _something_ caressing him has Dean crossing his arms and rubbing his biceps idly before he turns to leave the exhibit he’s currently in, heading towards the front doors. The weight of the rope on his wrist tingles his bones.

Actually driving to Castiel’s house happens in a near blur. Dean is surprised he even remembers how to get there. He parks his car under a carport with _GUEST_ painted on the wood and then steps out of the car, wincing as his door creaks loudly when he shuts it. His boots crunch over the gravel as he makes his way to the walkway that leads up to Castiel’s door, and now that he doesn’t have the man hanging all over him, Dean takes a moment to glance around the quadroplex. All of the doors are shut, lights off in the windows he can see; he checks his watch. It’s barely nine. Are all of Castiel’s neighbors early risers? He turns around so he can look over the parking lot, and is surprised to see that his car is the only one parked in the eight spaces provided. 

Odd.

He glances around again, rotating Castiel’s house key in the palm of his hand. There’s a knot in his chest, and he’s starting to wonder if maybe he’s got heartburn or something as he turns the key in the knob and opens up the door to head inside. The familiar smell of incense and weed immediately clings to his senses and he kneels so he can untie his boots, putting them neatly on the shoe rack next to the hall closet. Walking further into the dark house he turns on a few lights and then enters the kitchen, aiming to get a glass of water. He opens a few cupboards until he finds a glass, and then opens a few more until he finds what he thinks is a medicine cabinet; some ibuprofen, NyQuil, and a bunch of herbs and supplements. Chewing his lip, he frowns when he doesn’t see anything for heartburn, drumming his fingers on the counter idly. 

Unsure as to when Castiel will be home, Dean pulls out his phone and starts typing into Google. A quick search gives him a few names of items that could help his heartburn ‘naturally’, and he resumes fishing through the cupboard to see if he can find anything of the likes. He pulls out a box of licorice tea bags and figures fuck it, shutting the cupboard and working his way around the kitchen on a mission. Ten minutes later he’s steeping tea for the first time in his life and sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around the warm mug, that weird knot in his chest refusing to abate. 

He drinks his tea while he replies to a few emails, and when he’s done he dutifully cleans up his mess. Wandering out into the living room he eyes the television and the couch, wondering if Castiel would mind if he vegged out, but after a moment’s deliberation his feet are carrying him down the hall and to the bedroom without much further thought. Inside Castiel’s bedroom Dean lights a few candles, opens a few drawers to see what other wardrobe pieces Castiel is hiding, and does some general poking around before deciding there’s nothing too out of the ordinary here. He strips down to his boxers and climbs onto the soft bed, propping the pillows up against the headboard and fingering idly at the ropes binding his wrist. After a few minutes he’s antsy; he rearranges the pillows, the blankets, burrows down into them. 

He frowns. No good.

He leaves the bedroom to go out into the living room where there are throw pillows on the couch and he grabs all four of them, as well as the blanket folded up on the back of the couch, before ambling back towards the bedroom. Kneeling on the center of the bed he places, fluffs, moves, wraps, pats, fluffs some more, until he finally lies down and feels… right. Like that cocoon sensation he’d felt in the gallery with Castiel wrapped around him. Incense, weed, the scented candles and _ash_ fill his senses and he closes his eyes, feeling himself drifting off. 

When he stirs, he doesn’t know how much time has passed. Slowly, he blinks his eyes open, a hand moving to rub his chest when he realizes that the weird knotty feeling is gone. Movement out of the corner of his eye reveals Castiel standing in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning against the frame; he’s naked save for a pair of tight red boxer briefs, the outline of his hard cock visible with the shadows from the candles dancing over it. He’s back lit, a silhouette, but his eyes are burning blue as they regard Dean quietly. Instead of being startled at his presence Dean is warmed, inexplicably, and he rolls a little so he can sit up in his mountain of blankets and pillows and send the man a hazy smile.

“Welcome home.” 

Castiel pushes away from the door frame, tattoos inky black, swirling in the dancing shadows. He’s still wearing the crown on his head and when he climbs onto the bed on his knees, muscles stretching and contracting under tanned, inked skin, Dean allows his gaze to trail over his form. No wings. No fire. No ashes. No embers. 

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice is low, fond, as he joins Dean in the small space he’d made for himself among the burrow of softness. “What is this?” 

Dean glances around himself a little self-consciously, feeling heat dusting his cheekbones. “Uh- well. Feels weird bein’ in your bed without you, so I… y’knkow. Crowded it up a little bit.” 

“Mmm,” Castiel hums in appreciation as his body moves over Dean’s, guiding the slightly larger man to once again lie back in the cocoon. “It’s lovely.” 

An odd compliment on the surface, Dean thinks. And yet it still makes Dean warm from the inside out, the praise of making a suitable nest for Castiel to return to settling deep within him. 

Dean’s brain stalls a little.

Nest. 

Castiel is nuzzling against Dean’s throat, mouthing across the skin there. “Thank you for being here.” 

Licking his lips and swallowing, Dean moves his hands up around Castiel’s back, sliding his palms down the expanse. Smooth, hairless skin. No bumps, no imperfections. 

No wings.

“You asked me to be.” Dean finds himself replying. 

“And if I hadn’t asked you,” Castiel speaks slowly, reverently, kissing across Dean’s collarbones, “would you have gone home?” 

“No,” Dean answers easily, honestly. “This is where I want to be.” 

Castiel pulls away to catch Dean’s gaze, once again searching. All night Castiel has been reaching deep into the depths of Dean’s mind, questioning, prodding, confirming; Dean isn’t quite experienced in all of this (what _this_ is, he especially doesn’t know), but he appreciates the fact that Castiel is so fixated on his consent in any and all forms of the word.

“What do you need?” Castiel asks, his low voice rumbling through Dean’s body, catching on all of his nerves, his bones amplifying the sound of it like a subwoofer. 

“You,” Dean breathes.

“Do you?” Castiel asks. His tongue snakes out and slides slick along Dean’s chest, lips surrounding a nipple, sharp teeth tugging.

Dean gasps and tangles his fingers in Castiel’s hair, “I do.” 

He can feel the curve of Castiel’s smirk against his skin as his big palms run down Dean’s sides towards his hips, fingers dipping into the elastic of his underwear. “I do,” Castiel echoes.

Swallowing the dryness overtaking his throat, Dean blinks up at the shadows dancing across the ceiling, the shapes thrown by the flickering candlelight, and for a moment, they’re abstract - but in the next, they take shape. Dean feels his jaw go slack, his eyes widening, pupils dilating as great, black wings span across the length of the room. Castiel is still moving his mouth over the flesh of Dean’s chest, goosebumps rising in his wake, worshiping Dean with his lips teeth and tongue, the wings moving with every shift of Castiel’s body. They’re shadows but they’re _heavy_ , like they’re wrapping Dean up in their span, and suddenly Dean can’t make any noise, sounds dying in the desert of his throat before they can pass his lips. 

Castiel is persistent. Every touch, every caress has Dean’s cock swelling with arousal. He’s dizzy with it, the edges of his mind fuzzy and he almost feels drugged - but he’s aware. So, _so_ aware of everything happening. The shadow wings, Castiel’s touches and reverent murmurs, and Dean glances down, the sharp spikes of Castiel’s crown almost nicking him in the chin. 

“Cas…” Dean finally forces noise to come out of his mouth.

When Castiel lifts his gaze there’s an ethereal glow in his blue eyes, shifting and dancing with the flames surrounding their nest. Their gazes lock and Dean allows himself to drown in the intense sensation of _belonging_ that overcomes him, and then Castiel continues his descent down Dean’s body, mouth-shaped bruises blossoming in his wake. Dean allows his gaze to drop down to his own freckled skin and is surprised to see galaxies swirling across his flesh, Castiel breathing stars into nebulae. They glow like his eyes and they burn like his kisses and Dean shifts, squirming, feeling like his body isn’t his own as he starts to drown in the waterfall of stardust Castiel is breathing onto him. His hands move to slide over Castiel’s shoulders, fingers bumping into bone - thick, sturdy, protruding from Castiel’s smooth, beautiful skin. A few centimeters of slide and then Dean’s fingers sink into silk gossamer, Castiel shuddering bodily in reply. Realizing his eyes had closed at some point Dean opens them, watching his fingers drag over scapular feathers, Castiel moaning low.

“Dean…”

Flickering candlelight reflects blues, greens, even indigo and violet, and Dean stretches his arms to reach what he can of the glorious wings, their strength and beauty taking his breath away. Every touch has Castiel’s breath coming faster and faster and the man seems to get distracted with what he had been doing, forgetting his path, choosing to nuzzle his cheek into the skin below Dean’s navel. The wings shudder, Dean’s fingers pressing along bones and tendons, slipping along feathers, until finally bumping against something that has Castiel’s back arching, feathers ruffling, and voice keening.

Shifting a little so he can reach better, Dean presses his thumbs into the glands, breath coming short when something slick and warm drips over his knuckles. He’s not sure what it is, or _why_ it is, but something deep within him tells him to keep going. And the way Castiel has been reduced to a quivering mess, there’s no way he’s going to stop. Castiel’s wings snap, the resulting gust causing a few of the candles to snuff out, the sound echoing in Dean’s head as he starts passing his slicked fingers along the longer feathers. He’s entranced, in a daze, under a spell - but he’s so focused, alert, and _present_. He catalogues all of Castiel’s noises and responses, learns where to touch, how to press and stroke, and then suddenly Castiel is pulling back, the tips of his primary feathers knocking items off of his dresser as they stretch. His wingspan is hindered by the size of the bedroom and Dean suddenly finds himself wishing he could see them fully expanded, wants to count all of the feathers and kiss the curves, but he settles for scooting up a little and rearranging some of the pillows and blankets that got knocked askew with their movements and only belatedly realizing he’s probably getting them all oily. 

When the nest is back to perfection Dean glances up at where Castiel is, the man straddling Dean’s thighs, ass to his knees, hands smoothing over his own body. Dean watches his painted nails trace painted skin, watches his wings quiver, and the jewels on the crown glow as bright as Castiel’s eyes as the man - the _angel_ \- starts undulating his hips while tracing the runes and ancient scripts inked into his skin. His cock is straining against the material of his underwear and Dean reaches out with his still-slick hand, tugging down the waistband and watching as Castiel’s cock bounces free. Castiel drops his head back with a moan, exposing the column of his neck, and Dean’s eyes trace the curve, his mouth suddenly salivating with the urge to _bite_ , to claim, to mark Castiel as his own. 

Castiel reaches down, grabbing Dean’s left wrist by the ropes ribboned around it. He tugs it up and the rest of Dean follows, Castiel pressing Dean’s palm against the center of his chest. The gossamer from his wings reflects in his normally matte black tattoos and Dean watches the Milky Way snake through them and needle through his palm - Dean sucks in a hissing breath, the sensation more shocking than painful, and he watches as stars sparkle through his veins and travel up the length of his arm. Coolness rushes through his body and Dean feels his eyes roll back as his cock twitches with pleasure, and when his gaze focuses again he sees ancient symbols and text swimming beneath the surface of his skin, an exact mirror of all of the ink covering Castiel’s body. His head gets dizzy and then his attention snaps to full focus when suddenly they’re fully naked, Castiel guiding Dean’s hands back up into the feathers of his wings. 

Dean’s fingers press into the oil glands, the hot slick dripping down the length of his arms and trickling down his armpits and along his sides. Castiel’s back arches and Dean sits up to wrap an arm around his waist, his other hand dipping to slide his fingers down his crack, fingers circling his rim. Castiel shudders, his wings coming in to bathe them in darkness, constellations twinkling at Dean from the blue, green, indigo, violet gossamer. Two fingers slide into Castiel’s body without strain and Dean’s wrist twists, fingers scissoring, opening up Castiel with practiced ease. Castiel grips his shoulders, slides his palms down across Dean’s smooth shoulder blades - fire erupts under Dean’s skin, bones shifting, flesh tearing, ash falling, but he doesn’t lose focus, doesn’t stop stretching Castiel open. Two fingers becomes three, three becomes four. Castiel’s hands pull away from Dean’s back, pull something _out of_ Dean’s back, a wet, fleshy sound covering up their pants and moans. 

Stretching his back, rotating his shoulders, Dean gives in to the temptation to start biting along Castiel’s throat. Not hard enough to break skin; just worrying the flesh between his teeth, nibbling, leaving marks that bleed into tattoos and bruise tan skin. His shoulders are _uncomfortable_ , that burning sensation intensifying - hot, cold, then hot again, smoke dancing in the air - and when Castiel adjusts himself to sit down on Dean’s cock suddenly Dean’s spine arches and there’s a rip and a _snap_ , the room filled to the brim with a second pair of wings.

Letting out a long moan at the relief of his wings joining the physical plane, Dean pistons his hips upwards, fucking into Castiel sharply. Castiel gasps and smooths his hands along the length of Dean’s alulae, a full body shudder wracking through the man. Dean’s hands find their way back into Castiel’s wings and Castiel returns the favor; turning his head green eyes catch sight of dappled sable feathers, stardust flying from Castiel’s feathers to decorate his own. Wrought with sensation Dean shifts so he can get his legs under him, resting on his knees so Castiel can wrap his legs around his waist tightly. They grind together - they don’t fuck, they _melt_ , and Dean feels his wings shivering and shuddering as Castiel molests all of the feathers, stroking oil from the glands through the lengths of them, grooming them for the first time in millennia. 

“Dean,” Castiel breathes. “ _A oiveae_...”

A levy breaks. Dean gains leverage and pulls Castiel off of his cock so he can bodily throw him down onto the bed on his chest, grabbing the angel by his hips and drawing his ass up so Dean can slam into him from behind. Castiel cries out, his wings flapping before lowering submissively and Dean _pounds_ into him, the weight of his wings protruding from his back allowing him to drive in deeper, harder than ever before. Castiel is clawing at the blankets, pulling them towards himself in a feeble attempt to ground himself through what Dean is delivering; Dean lets go of Castiel’s hips and reaches up towards his wings, fingers burying in the covert feathers. Castiel _screams_ and fucks back against Dean’s cock and then comes untouched, spilling over the blankets beneath him, and Dean tumbles off the edge shortly after. He pulls his cock free from Castiel’s ass just in time to paint his back with cum, jerking himself through the aftershocks. He scoops up some of the cum and smears it around Castiel’s puffy hole, dipping his fingers inside, pushing the milky fluid in. Castiel drops down to his chest on the bed, keeping his ass presented, and then Dean scoops up more cum and reaches up towards Castiel’s mouth, watching with dark, intense eyes as Castiel sucks the covered digits between his lips and licks them clean.

Dean blinks, and their wings are gone. 

It’s just him and Castiel breathing heavily, freshly fucked out, the bed a mess, finger-shaped bruises on their bodies. Dean shrugs and rotates his shoulders, reaches behind himself just to make sure - and then Castiel rolls onto his side, away from the cum puddle, panting heavily. His skin is flushed and his eyes are bright (not glowing) as they regard Dean, a sated smile on his lips. 

“That was… otherworldly,” Castiel says. The crown finally falls off of his head and clatters to the floor. 

Dean glances down at the crimson rope on Castiel’s wrist, and then at the black rope on his own wrist, and feels exhaustion overcome him. “Christ, did you drug me?”

Castiel sends him a sly smirk. “There’s no need to drug you when you’re so willingly mine, Dean.” 

Dean’s unsure what that means, but he’s even more confused as to why he doesn’t feel… _weird_. Or like he should hightail it outta here and never look back. He regards the satisfied man sprawled before him, fingers idly playing with the black rope on his wrist; tightening it, loosening it. After a moment Dean shifts, tugging on the duvet. “Let’s get this off so we can sleep.”

Castiel rolls off of the bed gracefully, helping Dean get the blanket off. He disappears to carry it to the laundry room, Dean presumes, and Dean climbs into bed, smoothing out the mess they made. 

No urge to nest.

Castiel returns and joins him under the covers, drawing Dean into his embrace. Their legs entwine, their arms wrap, and though Dean is larger than Castiel he enjoys feeling small in his space, protected, safe. The candles are all burned out by now and Dean closes his eyes, inhaling; something about Castiel smells different. A tangy, sweet smell outlined by burning embers cloys Dean’s nostrils and he inhales deeply, feeling it pour into all the spaces in his mind and body.

As he closes his eyes to drift off into sleep, the Milky Way pours from his shoulder down towards his chest, filling his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> bets are on!  
> please tell me exactly how you feel on [twitter](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes%22)  
> xo


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